


One Sunday Night

by michaelWayland



Series: Mentor? More Like High Profile Dad in Disguise [3]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Childhood Trauma, Dork Peter Parker, Drunk Peter, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Graphic Description, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Childhood Sexual Abuse, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Insomnia, Parent Tony Stark, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Peter Parker Whump, Precious Peter Parker, Psychological Trauma, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Traumatized Peter Parker, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-26
Updated: 2018-05-26
Packaged: 2019-05-14 02:05:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14760557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/michaelWayland/pseuds/michaelWayland
Summary: "Peter," Tony gently asked, "Why did you resort to alcohol?""Can't sleep." Peter smacked his lips.Tony's eyebrows are dying to reach his hairline again. "Have you heard of sleeping pills?"Peter tapped his temple with his finger. "Don't wanna be trapped." He sobbed.That raised Tony's concern. Something definitely is going on if Peter feels like a prisoner in his brilliant mind. "What's going on?""Hurts." Peter croaked. "Whenever I sleep, it hurts."Peter ran out of coping mechanisms, and his nightmares won't stop coming, forcing him to relive every terrible experience in his sleep.





	One Sunday Night

**Author's Note:**

> Why are my angsty fics so damn long?
> 
>  
> 
> Anyway, there's implied rape and violence in the story. I don't know the exact weight of my description, but it's there. You have been warned.

Peter slammed his pen on his desk and took a deep breath, gazing up at the ceiling as he relieved himself. He stared at his chemistry homework, with his sloppy albeit readable handwriting. He checked every item to make sure he did the single replacements effectively. He gave himself a mental pat on his shoulders when he didn't saw any error. He filed it together with his physics and calculus papers due on thursday and clumped it on one of his organizers. Aunt May insisted on buying him one because apparently, she can't stand the sight of his cluttered desk that ruins the mostly neat furnishings inside his room.

He checked the time on his phone. 6:07. His exhaustion settled in when he stared at the clock widget. He may have finished all his homework — worksheets, essays, reaction papers, the works — due next week in one sitting, but that meant his butt and the small of his back are sore from sitting in a static position for seven hours straight and his wrist is flaring angrily. He is fully aware that his regenerative properties would fix his sore muscles in no time, but he stretched his limbs as soon as he got out of the chair anyway. He'll bet Captain America also has a PSA about not warming up nor cooling down after straining the muscles which is related to the fitness challenge one, and he isn't sure if he'd like to watch it or not.

Peter draped a blanket on his shoulders before he went out to the living room. His aunt May had already left for her graveyard shift (she's been taking double shifts to keep up with their monthly rent), and she may have informed in as she walked to the door, but he is too engulfed in his task to notice. Teenagers usually go out and waste the night away on weekends, but he insists on more studying and finishing his school works ahead of time. The extra credit is always welcome, and the foresight is necessary since some of his nights will be spent on patrol hence why reviewing for a potential surprise pop quiz that might or might not occur during the week and writing sheets and sheets of school work even if they're due on a Friday  is justified.

He turned the TV on. He found the news depressing, so he switched to Discovery channel and amped the volume to its max level in order to fill the silence in the apartment. Peter headed for the fridge and sure enough, there's a fresh note from aunt May as well as two slightly crumpled ten-dollar bills.

_Won't be home until six tomorrow. Treat yourself to some take out, okay? <3 _

_Xoxo, Aunt May_

Peter rang Domino's immediately. He released the bank notes from the fridge magnet and took it with him to the couch, where he curled on to himself as the television blared.

It is a painfully boring Sunday night, and he is itching to go patrol, but he already used up all of his patrol chances last week, and Aunt May renews the privilege every Monday. Ned doesn't have any new Lego set they could work on, plus his parents took him to the movies. He tried to get Peter to join him, but he just can't stand sappy chick flicks, and it was Ned's mom's turn to pick a movie. Besides he doesn't want to put himself where he doesn't exactly belong; Ned acknowledges him as a brother he never had, but it's a family night. Blood family night. MJ is probably working a shift on her part time job at the candy store on the 34th, so he wouldn't even consider trying to hang out with her.

The pizza was on time, but the wait felt like an eternity to Peter. He profusely thanked the delivery man and let him keep the change. The man tipped his cap to him and left with a grin. Peter felt great. He can still help people without being Spiderman. Sure, he could use the change but Mr. Stark's generous change from their trip to McDonalds last week remained untouched inside his wallet. It was second nature to him to spend the allowance Aunt May is giving him first before turning to his extra stash of cash. He laid the pizza box on dining table. Peter grabbed a large plate and served three big slices of Pepperoni for himself. He ripped a packet of hot sauce open with his teeth and laid it neatly on the edge of the plate. He closed the box when he'a done. Peter scanned the fridge for anything to drink. His eyes found the half-full liter bottle of soda from three nights before first, so he opted to grab that and poured himself some in a small glass. He returned the bottle to its spot in the fridge and headed back to the couch.

He nibbled on his pizza slices as he watched predators maul each other in their territories. It took him a while, but his stomach is still growling by the time he finished his third. Peter ordered a family-size pepperoni pizza, which seems like excessive considering there's only two of them but his superhuman appetite makes him worth two, three more people when it comes to dining. So he went back to the kitchen, bare feet against the cold floor, and grabbed two more, leaving the remaining three slices for his Aunt to reheat tomorrow morning. He settled in once more to his spot on the couch.

Peter lost track of time. He was so bored that he didn't realize he fell asleep sitting on the couch until his body slumped to his sides and landed on the cushion with a thud, which snapped his eyes open. It was no his neck's turn to become sore. He rubbed a hand on his nape as he turned the TV off, the apartment being submerged into silence again. Yawning, he went inside his bedroom and checked the time. 8:17. Way too early for bedtime.

When he lied down, he was staring at the top bunk with wide eyes. Does he really wanna go to sleep this early? Peter found himself staying up later more frequently after the events that transpired between him and Toomes, despite being done with patrol and homework, almost as if his own body dreaded sleep as much as he does.

It's because whenever he slept, he always runs the risk of being bombarded with dreams. He'll be snapping up screaming in the middle of the night, shivering, and occasionally hitting his head against the top bunk's frame. His sweaty shirt will be clinging to him, and he will be running his hand to his greasy hair, panting as if he sprinted on a triathlon without water breaks. In his dreams, he's either underneath that warehouse or falling deep within a lake. Either he would feel his arms as if they're on fire, or he would be doused in flames as rubble flew around him. Sometimes, he would be back inside the car, a gun pointed at either him, or to MJ sitting beside him, and his whole body felt numb and glued at the seat, or he would be in a sidewalk, and he's holding either his Uncle Ben, or Aunt May, or if his mind feels particularly cruel, Mr. Stark himself, bleeding out, their blood splattered all over his body quaking as if his blood is replaced with a thousand lethal volts of electricity flowing inside his nerves.

If his mind feels particularly generous, he will be back to their old place, back when Uncle Ben is still alive, and he was eight years old again, locked inside his own room with Skip. Naked Skip, who would shred every clothing article on his frail squirming body as he begged him to stop, crying. He'll feel small jolts on spots all over his body — his neck, his jaw, his chest, his thighs, and then there will be searing pain on the lower half of his body as his cries rang inside his own ears as if his palpitating heart is pumping sounds.

He passed off the dark circles under his eyes as a result of trying to do homework and Spidermanning simultaneously. Ned and MJ (although with a bit of more persuasion) actually bought it, to his own satisfaction. They've got better things to do than deal with nightmares that aren't even their own

Peter lied down on his side, wearily gazing on the wall beside him. He isn't sure how long did he burned a hole in the wall before he finally drifted to sleep.

It didn't took him long before his mind decided to play tricks with him again. He isn't in his bunk; he is seating at the back of Toomes' car, and he is pointing a gun at him, a cruel gleam in his eyes as he fiddled with the safety lock.

Toomes did nothing. He merely stared at Peter's watering eyes as if he intends to stare right at his soul, the gun hovering in the space between them through his tight grip. Peter gulped, and it burned his throat. His lungs constricted, and his breath came in short, hush puffs. Despite that, Peter just can't move an inch no matter how he tried to.

Toomes pressed the gun's barrel against his chest. Peter's breath hitched. He closed his eyes, mentally bracing himself for the gunshot.

It didn't came. Not instantly, at least.

Peter's chest is heaving. The cool hard barrel, he can feel a little too close. When Peter thought that Toomes would only stall him, he allowed himself to regain control of his breathing.

And that's when the gun went off.

Peter lurched up his bed, clutching his pillow tightly against his chest, gasping for precious air. His blood is roaring in his ears. Thick beads of sweat rolled down his forehead.

He is back in his room, illuminated by the city lights filtering from his window blinds. Peter hid his face behind his hands and just sat there, rocking himself for comfort.

It was at that moment that Peter has decided that he's had enough. He can't afford to live like this.

He did an online research on ways to get a peaceful sleep. In the span of weeks, he crossed out all of the recommended options save for the last one.

Booze.

He may have read that a little alcohol can aid in a pleasant slumber. He desperately tried to avoid it, but it seems he doesn't have much options left.

Sleeping pills came the closest to helping him, but the repercussions for taking them made him quit it. He gets his slumber, but it is never pleasant. At best, he would be sleeping on his alarm which means he gets to be late for school. At worst, his nightmares would plague him during the process, and he won't be waking himself by will thereby trapping him in his own mind. Add that to the fact that the good ones are costly, and he needs double the dosage due to his metabolism, and he makes up his mind that no, he won't be touching any of the stuff again.

Aunt May doesn't have any stash of alcoholic beverages, last he checked. He doesn't even own a fake I.D. But when he eyed his purse and saw Mr. Stark's change through his mind, the temptation won him over. He's had enough, and he'll be doing anything to make it stop.

"Hello, Peter." Karen warmly greeted as soon as he put the mask on. "Where would you like to take me tonight?"

"Hey, Karen." He cautiously scaled the walls of their building all the way to the rooftop. "Would you mind activating Stealth mode for me?"

"Initiating Stealth mode." The suit enveloped him in a dark mist from his own web shooters. The bright colors of the suit was muted down so that the reds and the gold accents would be blending to the surroundings. "Thanks, Karen."

The new mode is his idea. Mr. Stark was initially against it for a long list of reasons one of them being, "Sneaking out in the middle of the night to hook up with your girlfriend." But with some convincing (read: puppy doe eyes) he ultimately helped Peter cook up the formula for the mist.

His goal tonight is to go to the nicer parts of Queens and buy himself a few bottles of booze undetected. He needs to be Spiderman because nobody knows Spiderman's age and Peter would have to cling on to the hope that the cashier would think he's over twenty. He can't risk helping out anybody because if word of Spiderman saving the day tonight reached Aunt May, he'll be grounded hence why he resorted to using stealth mode. He can't be spotted by civilians, because he'll be compelled to help them. If Mr. Stark can see him now, and if he'll read his purpose in his mind, he'll be preparing a presentation for an hour long lecture about proper and responsible utilization of resources that he will present in one of the conference rooms in Stark Industries with him as the one and only audience.

As he swung across buildings, the flaws of his already shitty plan had presented itself in suit and tie.

Mr. Stark knows about his patrol limits, which means he is aware that he ran out of patrol stamps for the week. The suit's system informs him when exactly Peter suits up, how long did he stayed in the suit, as well as his location. There's also the Baby Monitor protocol to be considered; Karen would probably film him trying to choose between bottles as Spiderman. If on the off chance that the cashier would post something about selling Spiderman booze online, it would probably go viral, which means aunt May would find out.

Peter sighed. He stole a quick glance behind his shoulder, and his apartment building became tinier the further distance he travels. He can't go back now. The plan is already in motion, and —

_Ker-splat_ _!_

"Ow..." Peter whimpered. He's lucky his instincts kicked in and stuck himself into the wall like a fly on a glue board. "Karen, what happened?"

"You swung off a billboard and landed face first into the side of an office building." Karen helpfully quipped. Her enthusiastic tone isn't helping his confidence.

Peter blinked his eyes. The walls are transparent, and he is pretty sure this is a two-way mirror. His gaze was met  with astounded stares coming from people inside the floor gawking at him. So he may have broke the stealth mode. One of the workers pulled out a phone from his pocket and snapped a picture of him.

He sheepishly smiled. He waved at them awkwardly and fired a web at the building beside him, swinging as hard as he can just so he can get out of there fast.

Peter let out a deep breath. He's really not going back, since he'll be toast anyway. It's only a matter of time before a picture of Spiderman stuck on a wall like an insect against a windshield would go viral. He'll have to cling on the wishful thought that Mr. Stark would assume he is using the suit for its features. Which brings him...

"Karen? Could you turn on the heater for me?" Peter whimpered, "I'm feeling cold."

"Sure thing." Karen said, and his suit became uncomfortably warm. The night is cold, sure, but it's the kind of coldness that would only require an extra layer of clothing to neutralize. If he is going to cling on that thought, he might as well make it believable.

Peter stared nervously at the liquor store in front of him. He does not have a liar bone in his body, yet here he is, and he's desperate for some temporary relief. "Are you running an errand for Mr. Stark?" Karen asked. "What? No! No. I, uh..." Peter scratched his head. "Um, it's for a friend."

"A friend." Karen sounds like she doesn't believe him, and he isn't surprised. She knows about Ned and MJ and him being a pariah in his school.

"More like a neighbor, really." Peter mused. "We're all friends with the other tenants in our building." Another lie. At least Karen doesn't know anything about any of them.

He shook himself and took a few quick breaths before jogging inside.  It was a small liquor shop, hence why there's only one man in the counter. There's another one mopping the floor. Peter strutted inside, his back a little too straight even for Peter Parker standards and he walked inside as if he has a purpose, as if he knows what he's doing.

Except he doesn't.

Peter could feel the curious gazes of the shopkeepers on him. He narrowed his eyes at the tag prices and grabbed stuff within the range of five to fifteen dollars. He fished out a few small bottles as well as a handful of big, a liter and a half ones and headed for the counter.

The man stared at the booze, then at him. He impassively nodded and began checking the items out. Peter stared at his tribal tattoos on his arms as he listened to the pings of the barcode scanner.

"$53.49" He said in a monotone, staring at Peter expectantly. He fished out his wallet, which is tucked at the neck seam of his suit neck and clumsily opened it, making sure the wallet is facing away from the cashier. He silently counted the bills, and bit his lip to prevent himself from cursing. He's five dollars short. He failed to recalled what exactly he had bought with Mr. Stark's change. He stared at the man, who is raising a ginger eyebrow at him, and chuckled.

"Um," He carelessly picked out a liter bottle of whiskey and showed it to the cashier. "I'm not taking this."

"You don't have enough money for it?"

"Colonel Rhodes doesn't like whiskey." He sheepishly said. It was a poor lie, and he started feeling terrible for dragging the War Machine into this. Maybe he shouldn't have dragged the clueless man into this. If the guy spills, he'd say that Spiderman picked up booze for War Machine, who is a pal of Ironman, and the media would have a field day. He is aware that all he's good at is fucking things up, but everyday he surprises himself with how hard he can outdo himself.

Thankfully, the cashier doesn't seem interested. He had to be disinterested, not a well put poker face. Without a word, he cancelled out the whiskey, and his bill came up at $32.30. He glanced at Peter, who faked his own confidence and slammed forty dollars into the counter. The man isn't seeing his painful sneer behind his mask, and Peter's shoulders sagged in relief when he accepted it. He handed him the change and said, "Avengers party?"

Peter winced. He's in deep shit. "Company party." He faux-snapped. He gave himself a mental pat for not stuttering.

"Stark?"

"Industries." He added just a little too harsh. Peter sighed. He's getting cranky. He awkwardly placed his fists on his hips and popped his chest up. The cashier bought it, to his shock. He shrugged his broad shoulders. "Just asking."

Peter strengthened the paper bag containing the liquor by covering it with his web, while adding an extra layer or two on the bottom. He might as well be carrying a woven basket after he's done. He waited for the webs to dry down before he hugged it to his chest with one hand securely.

It was an unforgiving task, to swing cautiously from point to point with one hand while keeping his focus on his left arm to prevent the alcohol from slipping away from him during the flight, all while holding himself back from doing a full 360-degree swing. It's as if this is fate's way of getting back at him for being a bad boy. When he finally reached his bedroom window, his skin was caked in sweat. He didn't bothered turning off the heater to keep up with the ruse. He glanced at his phone — no text messages nor missed calls from Mr. Stark yet, much to his relief — and gawked when he realized that it's past one a.m already. He pressed the emblem on his chest and rid himself of his sweaty clothes, his boxers included, and ran for the bathroom and turned on the shower. He fumbled for the warm settings, but he got it right after accidentally chafing himself with smoking hot water, tinting his pale skin pink.

He put on some sweatpants and a roomy oversized shirt he purposefully bought with the intention to use it as sleepwear. He took the drinks together with a juice glass and his phone with him on the rooftop, where he sat on the edge and overlooked at the city laid down in front of him. The stars in the sky are covered by the clouds, but the city lights compensated for it.

Drowsiness started creeping up on him. He really should go to bed, but is too afraid to do so. Sighing, he opened one of the small bottles. It's beer. He sniffed it, and instantly regretted it. He nearly dropped the bottle off the building.

To be honest, he isn't sure if he can even get drunk due to his metabolism. He sincerely hoped that he didn't wasted forty dollars for stuff that won't even put him to bed, dream less.

He slowly brought the bottle to his lips, scrunching his nose so the smell won't assault him hard, and took a sip. The bitter, warm taste soaked through his tongue, and he immediately spat it out. He grimaced at the bottle. _Now or never, Parker._

Closing his eyes, he tilted the bottle to his mouth and forced himself to chug, willing his own taste buds to remain loyal to him and not make him gag. There was a heavy burn trailing his throat, and warmth settled in on his stomach. Peter may have finished half the bottle. It tasted bad. Horrible, even, but there is something in the warmth provided by the beer that he rather likes.

Before he knew it, he was done with all three bottles of beer. He eyed the remaining stuff, reading at the labels — only to see the words blur, the letters float around on his vision. His arms felt like lead, and the world is spinning around him. The city lights are a blur of color, and Peter giggled when he saw the lights twinkle like stars on his face.

He read the labels, judging how tame the particular drink is by its name. So far, none of the names screamed family friendly to him. He really should've paid more attention to what he's buying than what's on the price tag.

He picked up a hefty bottle of bourbon. Peter hiccups in lieu of giggles, grinning at the alcohol like it's soda. Hell, bourbon? To him it sounds like one of the candies MJ is selling.

"Bour-bon." Peter giggled, amused at his efforts of singing the syllables as if it was a nursery rhyme. "Bour-bon-hic!" He filled the tall juice glass to the brim and held it at eye level, treating it as one of the beakers in the chem lab. He dunked at the drink. There's more fire burning his own throat, but his taste buds are too numb to complain about the taste. He gradually emptied the glass in a short amount of time. He was pouring himself another one when his head pounded. He winced, closing his eyes once more to steady himself by gripping the ledge. When he was confident he's more stable, he finished the job and took more sips, the city a sea of warm lights in front of him, with its fiery waves lulling him.

He felt sleepy. Again. But he wants to drink more. Peter is still too scared to go back to bed. Maybe liquid courage can help with that little problem of him. The wind blew, and he felt himself shiver as the gust pricked at his skin. He quickly gulped his bourbon to counteract the chill.

The lights eventually bored him, their dances becoming too repetitive. Not knowing what he's doing, he grabbed his phone and scanned his contacts. Before he can even realize what he's doing, Peter's holding the phone on his ears as he steadied himself on the ledge.

Mr. Stark picked up on the first ring. Peter heard him groan from the other line. "Stark Medical Services." Peter clamped his hand over his mouth to stop himself from giggling for being in awe at Mr. Stark's ability to throw in sarcasm using a sleepy voice. "Would you like to send your location to where you're bleeding out this time so I can come get you?"

Peter let the giggle go. Mr. Stark totally forgot about his limit! "Hey, Mr. Stark!" He squeaked, his tone an octave higher than what he usually uses.

"Underoos?" Mr. Stark seemed awake now. "Everything okay?"

"Yeah!" Peter squawked, wiping some snot off his nose with his arm. "Yeah..." he slurred. A lone stray tear escaped from his eyes, which puzzled him. Is he crying? Why is he crying? "Look at your window, Mis'ser Stark. The lights are dancing."

Peter heard him shuffling up from the other line. "I'm taking that as a no."

Peter laughed. His mentor is just so stubborn! "Come over, Mis-hic!-mi'er  Stark." He yelped. "I got Dominos. And bour-bon. Hic! Bour-bon." Peter went in on another giggling fit. He really likes how family friendly the name rolls in his mouth.

There was silence on the other line. Peter can swear he can hear Mr. Stark's ragged breath. "Bour-bon." He sang in a high pitched tone. "Please help me finish my drinks, Mr. Stark. There's too much." He mumbled.

"Peter Benjamin Parker!" Tony yelled. There's machinery whirring in the background now.

"You sound like somebody's dad." Peter teased. He really does. Mr. Stark  blatantly ignored him. "Friday, link the call to the suit."

"Hi, Friday!" Peter politely yelled. Who was Friday again? Peter racked his brain, but his thoughts felt muddy and sleep is trying to grab him by the legs again. He chugged another gulp or two. "Bour-bon, bour-bon." He sang to himself, his legs dangling wildly to the open space beneath him, trying to shake sleep off.

Peter was poking at the strobe light dots in his vision with his finger when he heard a whooshing sound behind him. "On today's episode of Peter Screws the Pooch Again Season 2." Mr. Stark announced like he's reading at a teleprompter as he stepped out of his suit, wearing plain pajamas. Peter laughed at that. "We take a look at an underaged Underoos hammering himself at quarter-to-two in the morning with liquor he's yet to explain how he got hold on that's about as hard as his head."

Tony glanced at the bottles empty and full littered around the boy, who is now puking his guts out to the concrete upon seeing him. He pinched his nose when the stench hit him and grimaced at the empty bottles. The scene felt like deja vu to him. Young college freshman Tony Stark drinking wine he sneaked out of his father's locked cabinet at his room's balcony.

He wanted to be angry, really. One glance at the boy wearing sweatpants and a baggy shirt that made him smaller, however, and his anger dissipates almost immediately. The more rational part of him says that Peter would most likely forget about the context of whatever he says while the yelling and the shaking the poor boy to his wits would stay.

"Sorry." Peter winced when the taste of his own puke assaulted his mouth. He tried to wash the taste down with whiskey, but Mr. Stark jogged for him and snatched the bottle away. He capped it back and laid it down beside the empty ones. "You're not disgusting, Mr. Stark. Really. Just really queasy." He hummed, his body rocking back and forth. Tony laid a hand on his shoulder to steady him, which made him whimper sleepily.

Upon closer inspection, Tony noticed fresh tear tracks on the kid's face. The wide grin almost made up for it, but his empty eyes immediately told him he's lying. He warily eyed the bottles beneath them. "Why?"

"Purpose researches." Peter hiccuped. "Research purposes." He sheepishly smiled. 

"Research?" Tony echoed. "Peter, what the hell is going on?! How the hell did you bought all these?"

"Can't sleep." Peter dreamily mumbled. 

Tony furrowed his eyebrows. "What?"

"Can't sleep." Peter whined. "So I decided to have some candy shop bour-bon." He smiled, a little too pleased to himself, and then he let out a faint sob. "So sleepy."

Tony steeled himself. He pulled Peter up by the armpits and helped him stay on his feet. "You're going to bed." He snapped.

Peter's eyes went wide and started watering. He let out a wet sob as he tried to push Tony away feebly. "No, no, no." He whined. "I don't wanna go. Please, I don't wanna go." He reached for the bottle of whiskey that was in his hand a while ago, trying to will it to go to his palm.

"You're sleepy." Tony pointed out. "So bed it is." He logically presented.

"Please, Mr. Stark." Tears are falling down freely now. "I don't wanna sleep. I don't wanna go to bed. I just need a drink."

"Friday, scan for BAC." Tony's glad he wore his StarkWatch as foresight. Initially, he thought Peter decided to take advantage of May's graveyard shift and sneak in patrol but ended up getting drugged somehow.

It took Friday a while to complete the scan. No surprise there, considering that his watch isn't as loaded as his suit or his StarkPhone. "29%" Friday informed him. He glared at the kid, who seems oblivious of what the percentage means. "You're a few shots away from dying, kid." He sternly filled. Peter tilted his head to the side.

Tony peeked at the streets below. There's barely anybody, but that doesn't mean that no one is watching. He is certain a handful of people saw Ironman land on the apartment complex's rooftop on the way either in the safety of their window or their viewfinder. Tony sneaking a kid to his bedroom window would make an interesting headline.

Tony wrapped his arm around Peter's waist. The kid lazily draped his arm on his shoulders. "Phone." He mumbled. "Where's my - hic!- phone? Gotta text MJ."

"Nope, you are not drunk-texting your girlfriend." Tony found Peter's phone on the ledge. He crouched down, taking Peter with him, and picked the phone up. "You are going to your room, and you have a lot of explaining to do."

"But — "

"No buts. Or I'm calling your Aunt May."

That did the trick. Peter slumped into his grasp.  
  


Tony should really thank Rhodey for assisting him during his inebriated state in his carefree days. He had to keep talking to Peter to keep him awake so they won't be tumbling down the stairs all while supporting  him and making him take steps, _baby_ steps by murmuring encouragement. He also had to occasionally clamped his hand over Peter's mouth to muffle the noises he's making, or to make him tone his voice down.

Things got easier when they got to the elevator. As the elevator started descending to their floor, Peter's knees bucked. "Don't feel so good." He slurred. Peter retched. Cussing, Tony covered his mouth with his hand once more. "I dare you to puke on the elevator, kid." He hissed in his ear. "Really. I'm sure your landlord will appreciate it."

The reverse psychology seemed to work. Peter's knees won't stop buckling, but he at least looks like he's doing his best not to puke. 

After a lifetime, they finally reached their door. Tony flicked the light switch on. Peter winced when the lights flooded his vision instantly. Tony led him to the bathroom and made him kneel in front of the toilet. When he finally released his mouth, Peter lurched forward and puked more of his dinner to the bowl. He can vaguely feel Tony rubbing circles on his back.

"Pee." His lids are starting to shut again. Tony understood. He helped him up, then when he is sure Peter can hold his own, went out the bathroom and closed the door.

When Peter's done with his business, he clumsily fumbled for the door. He pushed it open, and he took a step forward, only to nearly fall on his face had Tony didn't caught him on time. Tony led him to his room. He made Peter lie down on his side, then tucked him underneath his comforter. Peter looked disoriented, trying to process the foreign surroundings. Tony took the opportunity and brisked to the kitchen. He scrounged the cupboards, and he sighed in relief when he found a small ice bucket stashed behind the casseroles. It caught a lot of dust. His eyes grazed over the glasses, and he grabbed one, pouring warm water on it. He laid the bucket beside Peter's head. "Water?" He offered. Peter managed a small nod. He took it with weak hands and managed to down the contents in one go. Tony placed the now empty glass on his desk and sat on the side of the bed.

"So," he crossed his arms. "How did you get the booze?"

Peter blinked his sleepy eyes at him. "Change. Your change from McDonalds."

Tony nodded, recalling a certain event from the past week. "How?" Tony prodded. "You're sixteen."

"Spiderman." Peter hummed. Tony stared at the haphazardly discarded suit on the floor. "The cashier was funny." Peter added. "Never asked for my I.D"

Before he can even fully consider it, Tony said as softly as he could, "I'm going to take the suit back. You're grounded."

"No~" Peter whined. He squirmed beneath the sheets. "No fair. I didn't go to patrol."

"No," Tony affirmed, "But you abused the privilege. Two weeks. I'm taking the suit, the tacky DIY onesie, as well as your web canisters with me." He can't risk Peter to rehash the Vulture incident again.

Peter started weeping again. He covered his face with his hand as he trembled. Tony tried to reach out to him, but he pulled his hand back at the last minute. He clenched his fists, but he just can't stand Peter crying. "Fine. I'll make you a deal." Howard would not even consider renegotiating.

"Okay." Peter sobbed.

"Seven days." Tony started. "I'll halve the duration if you can do two things for me right now."

Peter stared at him with puffy eyes, urging him to go on. 

"One." Tony breathed. "I need you to point to me where you hide your web canisters and your onesie."

Peter chewed his trembling lip, but he obediently pointed at his ceiling with an unsteady arm. "My canisters are under my shirts. Drawer."

Tony made an appreciative noise. "Last thing." He sat closer to Peter. "I need you to answer a few questions." Seeing how vocally open Peter is when drunk, Tony would like to seize the opportunity to find out then and there what exactly caused this mess. A sober Peter would insist he's fine over a thousand times while downplaying whatever is happening.

"Pop quiz." Peter mumbled, barely coherent.

"Peter," Tony gently asked, "Why did you resort to alcohol?"

"Can't sleep." Peter smacked his lips.

Tony's eyebrows are dying to reach his hairline again. "Have you heard of sleeping pills?"

Peter tapped his temple with his finger. "Don't wanna be trapped." He sobbed.

That raised Tony's concern. Something definitely is going on if Peter feels like a prisoner in his brilliant mind. "What's going on?"

"Hurts." Peter croaked. "Whenever I sleep, it hurts."

"What hurts?"

"Head." Peter paused, trying to probe himself for answers. "Heart. My arms. My whole body. My lungs. My — my ass." Two fat teardrops escaped his eyes. "My neck. My jaw. My thighs." Peter wheezed.

Tony reached out and rubbed circles on Peter's chest. His other hand is at his side, shaking badly with anger. His guilt tugged at him when Peter dropped the parts, but when he specified _those,_ he had a twisted feeling what Peter meant.

Something inside him broke. Whatever's left of him, anyway.

"The pain is only there when I sleep, Mr. Stark." Peter closed his eyes and rambled on. "And then — and then there's blood. Sometimes I'm coated with it, sometimes it - it's you, or Uncle Ben or Aunt May. Sometimes, it's coming out of my...my..." Peter shook his head furiously.

Peter's words tugged at Tony's heart strings a little too hard. Drunk Peter is too honest for his own good. For such a young age, Peter's psyche was already as damaged as his and the rest of the Avengers. To think that the worst of it didn't even came from his nighttime activities as Spiderman...

He was never as thankful to Peter for rejecting his slot as an Avenger as he is now. 

Peter was rambling incoherently now. Tony doesn't think he can take any more of this. What Peter has just disclosed to him would cost him gray hair patches and hypertension.

When he slowly made a move to remove his hand, though, Peter shut up. Before he can fully pull away, Peter held his hand down with his own, his small fingers interlocking with his own. "Can't sleep." Peter muttered. 

"Peter, I —" _don't think we'd fit in this bed._

"Please."

Tony sat down on the floor, not breaking physical contact with Peter. He sprawled his legs at a tolerable position, and he propped his head on the mattress. He moved the bucket beside him so they won't be separated by it.

The sleeping position he intends to slumber on would bite back at him in the morning, but fuck that. He squeezed Peter's hand. "I'm not going anywhere, kiddo. Friday?"

His AI responded to him. "Send a text to May Parker." He cleared his throat before he spoke.

_Peter texted me tonight. He says he's gonna skip school tomorrow. He's got the flu. Insisted he's fine. Thought i should tell you in case he won't._

Tony spared one more glance at the snoring kid. He rubbed circles on his hand as he allowed his own exhaustion take him to sleep.   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
